The Vixen (Wicked Wallflowers Book 2)

by Christi Caldwell

  “When did he arrive?”

  With a like terror reflected back in her sister’s always steadying gaze, Gertrude swallowed loudly. “Not long ago. Broderick turned him away, but he . . . insisted on being seen.”

  Their brother had been unable to send him packing? Oh, bloody hell, this was bad. She’d been discovered. There was no other accounting for his appearance here at this given moment. She slowed her steps. “D-did he indicate what the meeting is about?” What else could it be about?

  Gertrude shook her head once. “They did not speak in my presence.”

  A startled gasp burst from Gertrude’s lips as Ophelia grabbed her by her shoulders and gave a slight shake. “Surely you listened at the door?”

  Her eldest sister shook her head again. “No. I have been searching for you.”

  And Ophelia had been sprinting all over the Rookeries, avoiding capture.

  Through the terror clogging the corners of her mind, she struggled to find a semblance of rational thought. There could be any number of reasons for the investigator to be here, all of which might have nothing to do with Ophelia slipping around the Rookeries, assaulting treacherous lords.

  Oh, bloody hell. What else could it be?

  The wisp of a shadow flitted over the crimson satin paper. Ophelia found the small figure before he’d even stepped out of the shadows.

  “’e’s ’ere for me,” Stephen whispered, blocking the path to their rooms. Terror spilled from his eyes. “Oi know it. It’s because Oi burned down the ’ell and Sin an’ almost killed Cleo and Thorne an’—”

  “Shh,” Ophelia whispered. Pulling free of Gertrude, she dropped to a knee beside the ashen-faced boy. “The Blacks pledged to keep that secret. They refused to involve the law.” Were those assurances for him or for herself?

  In his bid to end the alliance between their families and bring Cleopatra home, Stephen, who’d always had a terrifying appreciation for and ease with fire, had set one inside the rival club. What if her brother was correct and the other family had reneged? Cleopatra loved Adair Thorne and vouched for the newly forged alliance, but what if they’d all been wrong?

  “Ya’re scared. Oi see i-it,” Stephen charged, his lower lip trembling. “Ya ain’t Cleopatra. If ya were, ya wouldn’t show that, and ya’d make ’im go away, an’—”

  “Stephen,” Gertrude admonished.

  Ophelia gathered her brother by the shoulders and drew him into her arms. “Look at me,” she commanded, framing his small face between her hands. Even as she knew his were the words of a hurting child who missed the sister who’d been more like a mother for him, his charges stung. “I will not let anything happen to you. Do you hear me?”

  “Ya ain’t a match for a constable, let alone a damned investigator,” Stephen cried, wrestling against her.

  Dropping her hands to his forearms, she tightened her grip upon him. Too many times he’d slunk off and couldn’t be found, except on his own terms. “We do not even know why he is here.” He might be here because of Stephen. Or what if you were spotted in the streets after knocking a nob unconscious? A chill scraped her spine at both prospects. “Come,” she said softly as he trembled. “We’ve outsmarted plenty of constables in our existences,” she reminded him.

  “That ain’t a word.” He dusted the back of his hand over his nose. “Don’t try to distract me.” With Cleopatra gone and his schooling being undertaken by Gertrude, all the Killorans remaining inside the Devil’s Den had taken to infusing those lessons into his daily speech. “An’ anyway, this one is different,” he insisted. “This ain’t any sloppy constable in the street.” He dropped his voice. “This is the Hunter.”

  At that ominous hushed whisper, gooseflesh dotted her arms.

  She looked to Gertrude.

  Her sister lifted her hands and gave her head a slight shake.

  Retraining her focus on Stephen, she compelled him with her gaze to say his piece.

  “’e’s only the most powerful investigator in London. Ruthless. ’asn’t ever failed a case.” A waif-thin boy, he’d always managed to slip between crowds and guests, escaping notice and gathering information. “They say ’e puts a notch in a belt whenever ’e brings a blighter in St. Giles to justice.” Stephen rounded his eyes. “Say ’e has ten belts and settles for nothing less than a ’anging for the men, women, and children he catches.” His pronouncement ushered in a heavy pall.

  Despite herself, Ophelia shivered. “Do not be silly,” she urged, for hers as much as for Stephen’s benefit. “No investigator can be that skilled.” She’d a lifetime of experience with the men in those posts to know they could be outraced, outwitted, and outplayed.

  “This one is different,” Stephen insisted.

  They looked between one another.

  Disquiet swirled through Ophelia. She had never been one for false assurances, particularly when the Killorans knew themselves to be guilty of any number of crimes. “Go to the attics, Stephen,” she said quietly.

  Immediately, color splotched her youngest sibling’s cheeks, and his earlier nervousness was replaced by a familiar show of bravado. “Oi ain’t scared of ’im!” He pounded a fist against an open palm. “’e’s just a man. An’ Oi’m a man marked by the Devil.”

  No, he was just a boy who also wore one of Diggory’s scars upon him—Devil horns carved into one knee, as a vicious reminder of who his sire was.

  From over his head, Ophelia caught Gertrude’s eye.

  Her eldest sister immediately sprang forward. Taking him by the shoulders, she pointed him to the doorway. “The attics, Stephen.”

  Until she ascertained for herself both why the investigator was here and just how skilled he was, she’d not take any chances.

  This time Stephen went without protest . . . tangible evidence of his fear. Good. They should all be cautious.

  Ophelia had not survived as long as she had in the streets of St. Giles by making faulty miscalculations, and she did not intend to now.

  Certainly not for a damned investigator who knew nothing about her world.

  Chapter 3

  The sins and strife of St. Giles never left a person.

  It just drove one in different ways.

  Some were content to thieve and kill in rat-infested alleys for every last scrap.

  Others rose up to become lords of the underbelly, kingpins in the cesspool of these streets.

  Then others, like Connor Steele, resolved to rid London of all that evil: those men who’d prey, those women who’d lift their skirts with one hand and stab a client in the belly with the other.

  He intended to leave St. Giles better than it was—an easy feat if it were not for the scum who inhabited this cursed corner of England.

  Escorted into the offices of the head proprietor, Connor entered, coming face-to-face with one of those very blights on St. Giles—Broderick Killoran.

  The same burly guard who’d escorted Connor in now quietly closed the door behind him.

  For a long moment, Connor and the proprietor of the Devil’s Den studied each other, sizing each other up in the primitive way of when men had warred with their hands and there was only room for one to emerge triumphant.

  Connor’s gaze was unflinching.

  So this was the man Diggory had made his heir. He wore his arrogance and conceit boldly, with a loud, embroidered waistcoat revealed by his slightly gaping jacket. From the tailored sapphire frock coat to the diamond stud neatly positioned at the center of an immaculately tied cravat, Broderick Killoran fairly oozed the wealth he’d built from vice and corruption. Of all the ruthless, coldhearted bastards, Diggory had selected the one before him.

  Under Connor’s intense scrutiny, Killoran thinned his eyes. “Mr. Steele,” he said with a street-hardened grin. “You are nothing if not persistent.”

  No, Connor had never been one to falter. “And you are remiss with your correspondences,” he returned, dusting those words in ice. Without awaiting permission, he claimed a chair.

&n
bsp; Killoran’s expression toughened, but then that fleeting annoyance faded, his false grin in place once more. “May I offer you a brandy?” He motioned to his fully stocked sideboard.

  “This is not a social call.”

  The casualness of Killoran’s steepled fingers and the smooth grin on his face belied the hard glint in his eyes. “It is an honor to have one of London’s finest investigators inside my club.” He laughed as though he’d delivered the most hilarious jest. “I’m lying,” he whispered. “Your being here is bad for my business.”

  There was a warning in the words that Connor would have to be deaf to fail to detect.

  He inclined his head. “Then it would be wise to take my meetings rather than ignore my missives.”

  A vein bulged in the corner of Killoran’s brow. “Are you threatening me?” he whispered.

  “I’m explaining to you how I conduct business.” Connor withdrew the small leather notepad and pencil from inside his jacket.

  Killoran flicked a dismissive stare over the book. “Your business,” he sneered, “does not affect me. You are neither Bow Street nor a constable. I am under no obligation to answer to you. So if you would? I have—”

  “Patrons?” Connor put forth menacingly. “Men, as you pointed out, who are even now asking questions about my appearance here.” That vein pulsed all the more. “You see,” Connor went on, pressing his advantage, exploiting the other man’s weakness, “appearances . . . they matter here. You know that. Your patrons, powerful lords, will toe the line of danger . . . but they won’t cross it.”

  The proprietor layered his palms over the arms of his chair; those long, scarred digits curled like claws. “My patrons’ safety here is assured at all times.”

  “Is it, though?” Connor lifted an eyebrow.

  Killoran said nothing for a long moment and then cursed blackly. “What do you want?”

  “I have questions for you.”

  Killoran reclined in his seat. “I cannot promise I have answers.”

  “You hire children,” he said, shifting to the reason for his visit.

  Killoran reached for his nearly untouched brandy. “That does not strike me in tone as a question.” He swirled the contents in a smooth, fluid circle.

  “All of London is aware you . . . keep children in your employ.”

  In your employ. Bringing them into this pit of vice and sin, a kingdom built by Mac Diggory. Loathing unfurled in his gut.

  “Many establishments do,” the other man pointed out, sipping at his spirits. “Are you taking umbrage at my offering employment to children? Are they better off in the streets?”

  “I’m questioning where you find these children, and I’d like to speak to them.”

  Killoran froze, his glass pressed against his lips, and then belatedly he completed that swallow.

  It was always in a person’s eyes—the extent of one’s evil. One’s guilt or innocence. One’s unease or fear. All were revealed within the glints or glimmers of one’s irises.

  Killoran, however, shuttered his, revealing nothing.

  And it was all the more dangerous for what it suggested . . .

  Complicity.

  The facade of affability now gone, Killoran set down his drink hard and leaned across the desk. “What are you suggesting?” the proprietor finally asked in steely tones.

  “Suggesting? I am asking questions.” Connor grinned coldly. “Unless there are reasons you might feel guilty?”

  A flush marred the other man’s cheeks. “I hire children in need of employment, Steele. Poor ones. You want to speak to them about their pasts? Allow me to save your valuable time. They are boys and girls without families, some without names, who’ve done what they can to survive. If my hiring them is a crime, that is the least of my offenses.”

  Men who bragged over their treachery and evil . . . it was the mark of the streets, one Connor was still immersed in for the work he did, but he had separated himself from it in every other way.

  “Where do you find them?”

  “The streets,” Killoran said with a flick of his hand.

  Connor scrutinized the man across from him.

  When he comes, Connor . . . you hide . . . and if there is no place to hide, you run and you never look back.

  He concentrated his attention on his book, pushing back that memory. They would always be with him, and yet how much stronger they were here in this place built by the man who’d destroyed Connor . . . and those he’d loved. And now he sat before the man’s former apprentice of evil and heir turned king of this dark world. Hatred singed his veins, and he lifted his head. “Who brings these boys to you?”

  “One of the members of my staff is responsible for interviewing and then hiring them.” That admission came as if dragged from the other man.

  “Come,” he scoffed. “You expect me to believe you don’t do the hiring of every person who has employment here?” In East London, a man had enemies all about, ready to plunge a blade in one’s back. Rising as Killoran had to kingpin of the underbelly didn’t make him immune to those dangers; it increased them. “You wouldn’t be foolish enough to turn that over to someone else,” he said bluntly.

  The ghost of a smile curled the other man’s lips in his first real expression of amusement. “You don’t know the ‘someone else’ in my employ.”

  “I want that someone else.”

  Killoran’s humor died. “You aren’t interviewing my staff.”

  “I don’t need your entire staff, just the person who brings the children into your clubs.”

  “Go to hell,” the other man spat.

  “Very well.” Snapping his book closed, Connor stood. “Perhaps your patrons will have answers.”

  The proprietor leaned forward in his seat. “I’ll have you thrown out on your bloody arse before I allow you to interfere with my club,” he whispered, that hushed sound more menacing than had he thundered it.

  Connor grinned, a rendition of the other man’s previous smile. “Killoran, I’ve conducted work on behalf of some of the most powerful noblemen in England and even for the king himself. Do you truly believe I cannot secure the necessary means of moving in here, should I wish, and carrying out my business?”

  The color leached from Killoran’s cheeks. “I’m listening,” he shot back, his tone weaker, hinting at a man wise enough to know when he’d been defeated.

  “I’ve been hired by a gentleman who is looking for his child.”

  It did not escape his notice that Killoran spoke over the latter question. “Who is the gentleman?”

  Connor leveled a searching gaze on the other man. “That is confidential.”

  Several lines creased Killoran’s high brow, the only marked shift in his composure. “Is it a patron?”

  “What of the ‘someone else’? The one who brings you your children,” he asked, ignoring Killoran’s question.

  “They are not my children,” Killoran gritted out. “They are orphans, hired by my establishment.”

  “Do you require my help with the overseeing of your club?”

  The proprietor looked at him as though he’d sprung a second head. “You, help me?” he scoffed, and a rusty laugh startled from him.

  Connor flattened his mouth. “Then do not presume to tell me how to complete my assignment.”

  The other man’s laugh abruptly ceased.

  With every moment that ticked by, however, it became increasingly clear by the proprietor’s evasiveness: he was protecting someone.

  But who? And to what purpose? “I’m waiting, Killoran,” he said, tugging out his etched gold watch fob. He consulted the timepiece. “And I’ve just the one case that I am currently working on. Your move.”

  “There is nothing underhanded in how my”—Connor sharpened his gaze on the other man—“staff member finds these children.”

  “And yet you don’t know how?”

  “I know enough,” he gritted.

  “Do you know the person enough?” he needl
ed.

  Killoran glanced down at the clock, and then, in a dismissive movement, downed the remainder of his drink. “It seems we are at an impasse, Steele. I’ll not subject any of my staff to a baseless inquiry. So if you will excuse me?” The other man shoved to his feet. “I have an establishment to run.”

  Connor masked his surprise. As one of the most ruthless men in St. Giles, it was no secret that Broderick Killoran had devoted himself to growing the late Diggory’s already successful venture and turning it into one of the greatest clubs in England. He remained seated and, in a deliberate challenge, folded his palms and rested them on his flat belly. “I trust you’ve dealt with all manner of men in these streets. However, I understand you don’t know me, so let me be abundantly clear. I’ll have my interview . . .” He paused, letting that silence stretch on until tension pulsed in the room. “Or I’ll not only secure the king’s permission to do so”—a favor he’d surely grant because of his client’s lineage and Connor’s connection to the nobility—“but also make myself a fixture here until every last dandy, lord, or fop in London finds their pleasures elsewhere.” He forced his lips into a jeering grin.

  Standing outside her brother’s office with her ear pressed to the door, Ophelia’s stomach sank.

  He knows.

  There was no other accounting for the muffled words she’d managed to make sense of through the heavy slab of oak.

  Dread spiraled in her breast, threatening to consume her.

  And yet . . . which had he discovered? That Stephen, her brother the arsonist, had burned down the Hell and Sin Club twice now and, through those blazes, had also destroyed four other establishments in St. Giles?

  Or does he know of your crimes a short while ago?

  A man known as the Hunter. He was as ruthless as her brother and sister had whispered of a short while ago. Here only a handful of hours and he’d threaten their very security . . . just to have his interview.

  Her palms moistened, and she dusted trembling fingers along the sides of her skirts.

  I would rather it be me.

  Nay, she’d rather it be neither of them . . . her nor Stephen.